


But you did tear

by hauntedpoem



Series: Fractured [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daenaerys as a political activist, Greysnow, Het, Introspection, Jon Snow we love you, Jon and Dany, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, PTSD, Post-Ramsay, Ramsay is a psychopath, Revenge, Sequel, Slash, Trauma, confused Jon, cop Robb, excruciating slow burn, loony bin Theon, so much revenge, unstable Ramsay, weird timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:39:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has to face a lot of demons. Not just his own, he realises. Sometimes, they dwell inside him, they lie dormant in his memories. He wakes in a cold sweat almost every night and simple reassurances help. Sometimes, his demons are flesh and blood, tangible matter, and to eradicate them he has to fight them with everything he's got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon's in a hospital, Catelyn regrets, Jon Snow... he gets to finally know some things. :)

He watches from afar. He is not a coward but he cannot be there, with him. He just keeps an eye on the Starks as they fuss over Theon.  
Catelyn is not very happy with the situation and her distress saves Jon the need to explain why he’s there after all those months of begrudging silence. Tragedy brings them together.

  
For the first time, she does not look at him with those eyes, full of resentment, but with a different expression. Then, she smiles bitterly. Jon finds it defies all logic. She could accuse him of fracturing the fragile balance of her big family. But she does nothing like that. She simply looks at him and she’s sad.  
She leaves for the corridors and Jon cannot help but follow her there. She keeps walking. Jon has a lot on his mind. He cannot really control what he’s feeling. Not now, at least.

  
While he’s alone with his dark thoughts, he can’t help but notice her moving slowly towards him. She’s tall and slim and proud. Her face is pale and unmoving as she carries on. She stops right in front of him and pushes a bottle of mineral water into his hand.

  
“Drink,” she urges. “You’ve been crying.”

  
Jon stays quiet and accepts it, a bit taken aback.

  
“Thank you,” he replies with gratitude, stopping before he could utter a _Mrs. Catelyn_ or worse… _mother_. He remembers how she slapped him once for calling her _that_ and Jon won’t repeat such a mistake ever again.  
She doesn’t look at him as she eases into the empty spot next to him. to outsiders they might look like family, but Jon knows they are not. They haven’t been for a very long time.

  
“I am sorry,” she says, and her voice is a bit rough, as if she’s been screaming silently until then. And then, to his surprise, she continues. “I have been horrible towards you.”

  
Jon does not know how to react to that, so he blames it on his tired mind. A hallucination of sorts which might explain his psychotic behavior for the past two weeks.  
But Catelyn continues, unrelenting.  
“I know I was never a mother to you, Jon.”

Jon thinks he heard her sigh, exhale a tired breath as if to gather strength. “I have been cold and uncaring. I know…”  
He doesn’t stop her. He cannot stop her, as much as he does not want to hear these things. This is not the best of times. He cannot take this, he just can’t. Losing Ygritte, losing Robb’s friendship, losing his friends, losing Theon and having him come back almost dead… and now this. He cannot endure, but he does. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes while he’s aware that Catelyn doesn’t look at him, but at a fixed point on the wall before them as if her own confession is something she wants to run away from.

  
“… and you were just a child. You had no idea what was going on but you were caught in the middle.” She then moves to face him and this time it’s Jon’s turn to look at the wall, studying the blue paint and the cold stripes left by the neon lights.  
“You shouldn’t have been lied to, Jon, not for so long. Ned should have told you. He should have told me. He shouldn’t have told us that lie.”

  
Jon is numb now but listens without any hint of a question on his face. He remembers red hair and crumpled sheets and then the vision changes to hospital beds and missing fingers. How many were they, again? He is preoccupied. He just wants Catelyn to finish, he cannot care now for her words, for her insecurities and her ghosts. His thoughts stray towards Theon, Theon lying drugged and bruised on a hospital bed.

  
He has to urge her to finish because apparently she expects him to.  
“What do you mean?”

  
So… she continues, and what she says next is worse than finding out about Ygritte’s accident and Theon’s torture. What he hears is cruel and unnecessary. He is Lyanna’s child. Lyanna, consumed by sadness and weakness after childbirth, dead of a broken heart.  
And he despises Catelyn even more. However... he is just too exhausted to protest and lash back at her.  
What saves him from retaliating is the crowd of nurses alerted to one of the sick rooms and the clamour on the far end of the corridor.  
He gets up and heads towards the noise. It doesn’t take him much to realize that Theon is awake.

-

Everything was white and bright and his eyes hurt. The weird hospital noises numbed his senses and after a while, everything that he could hear was a muted, muffled bawl. The beeping noises, the blaring voices, the emergency of every movement, the white, the green, the pale, faded colours reminded him of freshly vomited oatmeal. He started laughing because he just remembered how he had to eat it all up, fetid and warm. Warm, just like the seed of his tormentor that trickled down his thighs, obscenely slowly.

  
He looked at his mangled hands and started flexing as if to try the resistance of the tendons and the weary muscles. The cut wasn’t clean and should have caught an infection if he didn’t let the flesh to be burned and scorched.

  
And it was better to keep his head down, after all. They were prying at him and prodding and asking but he knew better than to listen to their voice, so he shut them out and retreated in the room inside his head. He shut down completely. The eyes could look, but they could not see. He swayed from side to side and the motion helped him enter that world, void of anything, drowned and submerged in silence.

  
Hands shook him and a penetrating voice shouted again _“Hurry, we lose him again!”_ , but he was too far gone and the winding path widened and beckoned to him further, so the white room faded again with its disgusting little people dressed in pastel-pale vomit-inducing costumes. And aprons, and metal trays, and stethoscopes and big hypodermic syringes, they all turned to dust and drowned under the sea. He was swallowed and for a minute lost himself in another memory, because that’s what it was. Everything he had was gone and what was left were these tormenting fleeting memories of his old self, a man he’d rather not meet again. His memories floating in his head, in Reek’s head… oh, they were disturbing and didn’t help his already diminishing concentration… oh… and of course, they upset Ramsay to no end.

  
Ramsay cleaned and purged Theon of his old self and attached a new name to him. He showed him what was real. Fake. He showed him his true essence by taking away the unimportant, the flimsy pleasures and little comforts, the empty beauties that once surrounded him. Torture. Ramsay’s reality became Reek’s reality. Abuser and victim. And Reek knew that he would always find a saviour in Ramsay although he couldn’t always please his master. Monster. Reek knew his real self was just bad and odious and it did not serve Ramsay's purpose.   
No one else would want you. No one else understands you. No one else deserves you.  
That’s what Master said.

  
-

  
It’s 3 AM and he wakes up once again, in a cold sweat. This time he recalls every detail from the dream in silence because he can’t pretend he didn’t confront the reality of it all those past months. He dreams of hospital corridors and flickering neon lights, of white sheets and cold faces. But there is one face in particular to the familiarity of which he returns again and again. It surprises him that this time it’s not her. No… he does not dream of red hair swishing in the wind anymore, but of wild, stormy grey eyes, frantically moving from left to right. He dreams of pale skin and scars that cover every inch of it. The scars expand like flowery lace and the eyes looked straight into his soul, weeping sadness and despair.

  
He just knows this has to be Theon.

 

He’s seen him once.  
It was enough.  
So he does something he hasn’t done in a while. He wakes up completely, leaves the bed and goes into the shower. It’s useless trying to sleep after all this. He still chases the dream away because whenever he shuts his eyes, even as the water pours all over him, he can see Theon tied up on a hospital bed, confused and trying to break free – it’s for his own safety, the doctor says as he comes in with a sedative, ready to inject it into Theon’s pale neck. So he stays awake and his eyes follow the tiny droplets of water on the tiles as gravity pulls them down.

  
Then he thinks of Lyanna Stark, his birth mother and he wants his mind to go back to Theon and the general madness that surrounds his situation. He does everything to avoid thinking of Lyanna and how she died from blood loss in a cold apartment, her heart filled with hope and shame.  
He towels himself dry and for a split second catches his reflection in the foggy mirror. It’s just a face, like any other face, blurry, dark hair. All that he knows is that the eyes are deeply sad and that he’s been a fool to ever think that Ned Stark was his real father.  
What an idiot!  
His biological father is dead as well. At 4 AM, Jon Snow decides to look for his remaining relatives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets someone close to his blood. Things look promising. Theon... Theon suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. warnings for this chapter. I mean it. mentions of Ramsay and non-con.  
> this is seriously disturbing.  
> This is an AU and I tried to transpose as much from canon into this fic.  
> Jon POV and Theon POV.

Most of them are dead. Aegon and Rhaenys would have been his half-syblings.

Viserys, his uncle, was also dead. In mysterious circumstances, the news said. Jon is not sure he would have liked him. He is certain, however, that Viserys would have ignored him, or worse, would have called him a liar and denied the existence of such blight onto their family name.

All that is left is her. Daenerys Targaryen, now known as Stormborn. She seems like the only one that wouldn’t claim her older brother, Rhaegar had been a saint. She wouldn’t deny that he was capable of fathering a bastard.

 He sees her in pictures. She’s so unlike him, that Jon thinks it’s all a mistake. His father was so pale and blond and yet… Jon looks nothing like him. He is all Lyanna, dark and serious looking. Dany takes after the rest of the Targaryens. Her hair is platinum blond and her eyes are sapphire blue. Like her brother's. Jon looks unrelated to them.

 Dany Stormborn, she is called by those that support her and her campaign. And she had plenty of supporters, Jon cannot help but somehow, be happy for her, this amazingly beautiful and fierce woman. He could have fallen for her, if he didn't know any better. She is everything he wishes his mother had been. Then... Perhaps she wouldn't have died of a broken heart.

Would it bother Daenerys if one day, Jon Snow, a complete, irrelevant stranger would come to her and claim he is her brother's bastard? He hopes not. She seems above petty stuff like that. Her integrity and her arguments tower above everyone who opposes her and her mission. He’s never given much thought to politics before then but when he starts reading about her and her pro-social campaigns, Jon finds his eyes water. She had fallen once and she rose above, like a phoenix from the ashes. They have much in common, he dares to think.

 Apparently, she never knew much of her biological father either, except that he was a lunatic. Jon didn't know who his real parents were until recently. He's always lived with a void inside. They have that to talk about: the scene of a parental figure in their lives. That... And books. He's proof that she's his aunt, so well-read and well-spoken.

She is gentle. Deceivingly so. But for Jon, it’s enough, even the pretender of gentleness in the eyes of the press is better than nothing.

He cannot wait any further and he does it: sends her an email with his picture, his address and a few paragraphs about him. He needs that. And Jon does not need much. It’s how he’s grown to be: self-sacrificing and self-reliant. He pushed the send button before the crippling fear. If she rejects him, it’s fine, Jon will understand. Somehow, it would be easier if she proves him wrong and rejects his existence.

Then, it would be like none of this happened.

But he’s surprised to find that an hour later, Daenerys has replied. Long story short, she didn’t really welcome him as one might do for a long lost nephew but she accepted to meet up with him and hear him out. To Jon, it seems like a cautious move. Yet he approves of it. Of course Dany would be cautious. But something in her reply strikes a chord inside him. It’s true that she answers like a true politician, very diplomatic… yet there is something tender in her words.

_No one should be bereft of the memory of their parents. Not when there’s kin alive. Blood should never work against each other and it’s a pity that I never knew about you, Jon Snow._

Suddenly, he feels less lonely and it’s only too late when he starts to cry. His eyes sting. How long has it been since he had given in so freely? He lets them stream down his face and it feels like pieces of glass have been suddenly dislodged from his eyes, from his neck, from his very heart. He feels cleaner now. He feels that he’s been purged so that he can begin again.

He replies back, as fast as he can. He thanks her. That’s all he can say.

_Thank you._

 

-

There isn’t much they can do for him.

He tries to tell them that they shouldn’t bother anymore. He is Reek.

But he is not. Not after Ramsay left him out in the middle of December, bleeding and concussed. No… not even Ramsay wanted him anymore.

He tries to tell them that they shouldn’t bother. If they could, they should just put him down.

He cannot even do it himself. He doesn’t belong to himself to do that.

He cannot even die.

He looks towards the two nurses setting up hardware in his hospital room.

“We are closely monitoring your brain activity, Mr. Greyjoy. The prospects look good but we want to exclude any unwanted effects of the medication.”

“We’re so glad you’re back with us.” The other one says. She’s a thin, wispy woman, pale blond hair, unremarkable face, yet there’s something about her that makes Theon’s blood curdle. She’s exactly Ramsay’s type. He wants to tell her to run, to go away, leave him alone, but she only smiles and says “It’s fine, Theon. You’re safe here!”

 _But you’re not_ , he mumbles, and she looks at him strangely, as if he’s deranged. The problem, he thinks, is that he actually is. He’s never been normal per se at the beginning of all this. He surely cannot be now.

The brown haired one, a middle aged nurse with a square jaw and a grave face is adjusting his IV.

“We have administered you some mild sedative. You will be able to sleep peacefully, now, Mr. Greyjoy.”

It’s mildly unsettling but after a few minutes, they are still in his room, still checking on the cables and the hardware and he feels himself drifting into sleep.

It’s not a peaceful one.

There, waiting on a grey hallway, is Ramsay. His eyes are ice, his face is a block of stone. Only his lips move restlessly, like writhing worms into freshly dug soil.

“Come back, my Reek. Come back to your Master.”

Here, in these memories, in these dreams, Theon is but a crumbling thing.

He sees himself in his dreams the way he last saw himself in the mirror in the bathroom that last time. A broken thing. A pale haired creature with unfocused eyes and a scarred body. His nakedness is disturbing. He looks… _wrong_. There is nothing there between his legs, he looks nothing like a male anymore, Ramsay took care of it. And there are toes missing.

Ramsay was the only one who talked to him, the only one who touched him. He was _everywhere_. There were nights when he would take Theon, _his Reek_ , roughly on the squalid floor of the apartment, and Theon wouldn’t even have the strength to scream out his pain. He would only whimper when Ramsay would ferociously stick two fat fingers in mock preparation into his twitching asshole and shove them in and out uncaringly.

He saw Ramsay’s face in the mirror when he scissored him raw and whispered bitter endearments into his bitten ear. "My _sweet_ , _darling_ Reek. How _good_ you are to me, _my love_.” And then he stuck another one, dry friction driving Theon forward onto the floor, hoping to escape the brutal shoves into his passage. He couldn’t even cry, his mouth was parched and how could he have run, anyway? There was no escape, not when Ramsay was in his head.

_What should he tell them?_

What whould he tell this doctors and nurses? That after a while, he gave up and didn’t even pick himself from the floor where Ramsay left him after a particularly _satisfying_ fuck...?

Ramsay’s face, as he spat generously in his hand and spread the vile saliva onto his thick, monstrous cock,  looked almost _serene_ in the mirror’s reflection. He looked good and kind and gentle. He looked like Bolton’s _perfect_ son. And as Theon braced himself for the merciless intrusion, his elbows and knees scarping on the floor, Ramsay smiled. He smiled at him all teeth and red lips.

It didn’t matter that he would pinch his already abused cheeks or that he would cut shapes into the skin of his back as he fucked him lazily. Theon couldn’t do a thing to stop him. He was too weak physically.

“Resistance is futile, _my_ Reek. Tell me, am I not a kind Master to you, my lovely one?”

And he would groan afterwards and then he would call him _adorable and sweet and perfect_ and then pull out entirely, his own cock an angry, painful red, and slick himself some more then push inside his gaping bloodied hole in swift shove. He cannot close his eyes for he watches his Master ramming into his backside at a merciless pace now. Only a beastly grunt and a hardening in his jaw signal that he is near his climax. Theon watches, as he does every time he is ordered. There, in the reflection of the mirror, he watches and pays attention to every little thing his Master does. For a brief second, their eyes meet and Theon has to look away. Ramsay stops looking at his reflection and just stares down, between their joined bodies, watching his slick cock slip in and out of Theon, of _Reek_.

And Theon knew that Ramsay was in a particularly good mood that day, for he was left lying on the floor with blood and semen dripping  on his thighs, following a meandering trajectory only to pool on the already dirty floor. Shortly thereafter, Ramsay would murmur a happy, childish tune as he emerged from the shower, like a perfectly white, perfectly sculpted block of ice. Unmelting.

“Come, my Reek. Come, to me, baby,” he would take him by the hand and pull him up on his unstable feet and then drag him towards the bed only to shove him back on the floor. His patience was wearing thin.

“Go clean yourself, you spoiled thing! You filthy, disgusting…” but his voice would drop from its angry, monstrous tone into yet another lilting, innocent murmur “my lovely Reek, my perfectly obedient Reek!”

At this, Theon could only nod his thanks, head low, eyes frantically dating from left to right and back again, facing that filthy floor.

So this is why he would never be rid of Ramsay, not even in his sleep.

Ramsay left traces on his body, he is inside his head, he is in his bloodstream. Like some damned virus he preambles inside him. He dwells inside him now. Theon hates it. Reek fears it.

Ramsay never lets you go.

His thoughts gather into a storm and mingle with images of his tragic, pathetic life.

He dreams of the murders. And of the other broken things.  Women, girls, sisters and mothers. Women that he caught like they were butterflies. He broke their wings and tore their limbs. Why would he let him live after all the gruesome things he’s seen? The reason he’s still alive is because he didn’t say a word. The thing that he is now, plagued with visions of Ramsay returning, of Ramsay looking for him, has no chance. He is live prey.

-

She isn’t that tall, he notices when he sees her approaching  the small corner café. She is closely followed by four of her agents. They form around her a protective aura, as if expecting Jon to be an imposter. Two men at her sides, another tall, dark one behind her and close to her, another woman.

Dany enters alone. The others pretend they have other things to do and they blend well into the scene.

At first glance, one wouldn’t recognize her. She wears plain jeans and a blue jacket, tall boots and no makeup. Her hair color is slightly different.

Jon’s eyes raise to meet hers and her eyes penetrate him. She is the kind of woman that holds every stare, yet here, in this café, nobody knows who she is except for Jon.

He rises up to meet her, motioning to her seat.

“Hello! I am Jon Snow.” He is surprised at how much his voice trembles. He sounds too young, too unsure. His lower lip trembles and his left eyebrows crease trying to keep his eyes from shedding any more water.

She just smiles at him. Truly smiles at him, and Jon knows it’s not her tabloid smile, it’s not a fake smile.

“Nice to meet you, Jon.” She extends her hand and in Jon’s roughened one, hers feels soft and light, like a white dove. Not even Ygritte’s felt like that. Definitely not Theon’s.

 

But that thought brings pain to his face because he remembers how he’s seen him in the hospital. Those mangled hands, with missing fingers… No! He tries to stop himself from remembering.

He’s too shaken.

“I was surprised but I looked into your history, Jon.” She begins in a smooth voice, yet that sweetness and feminine lilting tone that catches his attention hides something that Jon knows too damn well. Her interior is hard, she is like a diamond, his aunt. Tough and beautiful. Unbreakable. She gives him hope.

“Ermm…” Jon doesn’t know what to say. Of course she looked into his life. She has to be cautious. “I understand why you would do that, honestly.” His voice is not cracking yet. He is well-adjusted. He can do this, he tells himself. “It came as a shock to me as well.”

She smiles warmly again and then she orders something.

They don’t talk for a while and the silence doesn’t seem too unbearable for Jon because his words seem lost somewhere on his tongue.

“I will ask you for your glass, Jon,” She says and smiles again. “Although I know what the result will be. I can feel it. You are my brother’s last living son.”

“Of course,” he almost whispers. He hands her the glass and she places it in a small bag she extracted from her pocket. She then pays and with another smile rises to leave.

“I’ll be seeing you in two weeks, Jon. I really have to go now.”

“Of course,” he says. And it’s fine, because she is his aunt, Jon can feel it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... I would really like to know your thoughts on this one, especially since I haven't been keeping up with this fandom recently. I plan to make this a long and convoluted fic. Also, a dark one.  
> I mean... what are your expectations? do you have any suggestions? any complaints?  
> :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't much but it's heading in the right direction. I guess it has winter moods and all... It's meant to be gritty and introspective and a bit guilty. Enjoy and let me know what you all think!

It's 3 AM again.  I am tired but I cannot sleep.  
Now, 3:07. I reply in my head the way she looked at me, the way she shook my hand. She smiled. She said she believed me. Yes, I am Jon Snow. It's me.   
The bastard. The orphan. And just like that, with a smile on her face, Dany collected evidence for my DNA. And I let her. 

  
But this isn't the reason I can't sleep. It's not Dany and her badass crew of political rebels. This isn't about my father either. He was not this amazing man that every boy wants to be. He was an alcoholic adulterer, a junkie, possibly a rapist. I guess I'll never know for sure. And I don't think about Ned either. And no, this bloody isn't about my dead mother, may she rest in peace.

  
Why does my face look like something I just want to punch right now?

This is about Theon fucking Greyjoy. I cry easily. And my face looks all red. My eyes dark and hollow. Because of all people, I dream of Theon. I can't sleep because I see his face everywhere in my dreams. I return to him, in the end. And no matter how much I want to replace that image with something else, with Catelyn for example, I just can't. I find myself stuck on that face. No, not the hospital-Theon or the mangled version of Theon. The other Theon. The one I couldn't get out of my head for years.  
I can't forgive him. I can't forget him. I can't deny him.

  
When I look in the mirror I don't see myself anymore. I just see weakness, unreliability, dishonesty. My image blurs and my eyes focus awkwardly on the tip of my nose. There's a stain there, like soot. I rub my finger over it. Where did I get this bruise, anyway? It's like a mark and in that moment, I see everything I did to him. I pushed him away. I beckoned him closer. It was me, not Robb, who did him in. Robb is just a good boy. He always wants to do the right thing, even when every cell in his body screams to do the opposite.  


*

One bedroom, a living room, small kitchen, a storage space and bathroom. That's what I'm paying for. A house in the woods. Useless job I don't like. Not much of a family. No emotional attachments. This is going nowhere. There's nothing here for me.  
I have no parents. Just an aunt and the wife of my dead uncle who hates herself for hating me. I have Robb who avoids me and married a girl he got pregnant just because it was the expected thing to do. I got now cousins that once were sisters and now are away.

  
I got Ghost. 

  
I have everything I once had minus Theon. Theon, lying in that hospital bed, heavily sedated and constrained... That is not Theon.  
And out there I know that someone waits to do this again.  
Someone like Joffrey. Someone worse than him, someone who took what was mine. No... not mine. I got just a glimpse. What we had was a moment in which I poured my whole self. I poured myself into Theon and he poured himself into me. He is mine as I am his.

I got Ghost. Ghosts and memories.

  
I shiver and it's worse than being doused with cold water. It's a horrible feeling down my spine, on my sides, a trembling in my ears, a stinging in my eyes. Far in the night, I can hear dogs howling. Ghost is somewhere in the woods right now but he's silent, just haunting the grounds. A lonely car passes down the street. 

The night is foggy.  
The noise it makes is absurd. Here are few cars. Lonely houses within great distances from one another. I’m practically nowhere. Forty-five minutes give or take to the city, where Catelyn is. Where Theon is.

At least the heating is great. I could sit naked all day by myself and not feel the cold of the winter. In passing, I think back on Ygritte.  
Ygritte was there as well. But this now, this is what everybody wants. A quiet place.  
If there are shadows in my windows, I don't know. The second storey always seemed safe to me. Now a quarter to 4 and cars move slowly on the main road. Dark and deep is the night here. Owls hoot and screech. Something’s not right.

At five-ish, I do laundry. The hard way. I scrub and I brush. It keeps bad thoughts away. I just pulled my hair in a knot and my head just hurts. Is this what Theon’s feeling? His merciless concussions, his missing fingers and toes?

*

I think it’s sunrise when I fall asleep. I wake up at nine. Robb’s calling me. Insistently.

“Can you get in the car and come meet me at the station?” I grumble in assent half asleep, my head still pounding. “Sure, I’ll  be there, I whisper.”

I down two aspirins with a glass of water, eat an apple and bland oatmeal. Outside is freezing. It will snow soon and I have to change my tires. I make a mental note as I warm the engine and go up the main road.

His face is distressed, all freckles and watery blue eyes. How old is his kid, again? Not a kid anymore, I know. He should have enough sleep now that the baby can eat solid food and doesn’t wake them up in the middle of the night. Robb changed his major to law enforcement and is now a low-rank officer. After Ned died, it was clear that with a kid and too many dreams, he wouldn’t be able to independently put food on Jeyne’s table.

I try to ignore the dark circles around his eyes. I focus on the freckles.

He whispers to me as he pushes me into an alcove, away from the cameras.

“Jon, Jon, listen to me. They found yesterday night a body. It’s just like Theon’s. Fingers missing, toes… mutilation… malnutrition.” His eyes are frantic. “They are serious about this case. Some psycho is on the loose and I heard them today… the thing is big, traced to twenty missing persons. It’s… It’s hell.”

I understand but I… don’t really get what he wants from me. I nod just as it’s expected of me and I let him continue. What do I know, anyway? I’m not the model citizen, goody-two-shoes who screwed up once and now tries to push their self-righteousness upon everyone else.

“I am asking this of you. You are my brother. Please… Stay with him.” His hand crawls up my back, touches my nape. My leather jacket crunches under his weight. “Keep an eye on him, I’ll make it up to you… there’s this monster out there and Theon’s not safe.”

Yeah, Theon’s not safe, and he called me “brother”. Just now, the fucking bastard!

“Yeah, sure…” I say in my most contained voice. “You can count on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter... we'll battle that monster a bit, mmkay?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overdue chapter... the noose tightens around Ramsay's neck, unbeknownst to him.

I'm sitting at the bar and I realize I don't know half of the aspects surrounding the deaths of those girls. Somehow, I have to persuade Robb to help me here by divulging confidential information pertaining to the case. They secretly call them "the butcher's girls" which is both insulting and terrifying to victims.  
All the bodies presented lividities and have been dumped in garbage containers in surprisingly public places. It was as if the killer treated the world around him as his personal, sick playground.  
Most of the bodies belonged to women in their twenties, weak, fragile. Somehow, they came by the butcher. But how?  
I don't  talk to Robb much these days anyway. He's upset because Sansa got into trouble. Two weeks, maybe more, missing from the university because of Mr Baelish, his dear mother's friend, who decided to 'abduct' her under the pretences of a trip. 

  
*

No one in the family found out until one of her professors decided to call to announce that due to lack of presence, she was failing her class.  
Days later, Sansa appeared on her brother's doorstep looking gaunt and sick. Her mother would have given her a beating if not for the bruises she already had on her body.   
Of course, he found out much later. For some reason, the Stark matriarch decided that keeping it secret and treating it superficially, would make the memory go away.  
Sansa has been since then in therapy and only now did Robb consider to share with me his fears that she might have been a captive of the butcher. Baelish fled the country without delay, while a girl's life could have been destroyed. But Sansa was stronger than she let out.  
Sansa's recounting of the facts has been foggy, convoluted, easily disparaged but for some reason, the police came every day to talk to her about it.   
It dawned on Jon that they were desperate.

  
*

A week later, a factory worker discovered two new bodies, both decapitated and with their fingers chopped off. One of them presented bite and claw marks. But more importantly, these two as gruesome as they were, had been covered with very long fine sheets of paper.   
At last, they got a lead.   
And so did Jon.

*  
  
The feeling just intensified when one night he drove near Bolton Publishing, now quite abandoned after Roose had been found dead in mysterious circumstances. Ghost released a low-pitched whine. It made Jon's hands freeze at the wheel.  
Whenever he manoeuvred it to the park, Ghost would simply whine harder. It terrified Jon to some degree. By the look of it, the building and the surrounding area seemed the most sinister place. Sansa described being chased through narrow, dark corridors while a man was spurring them on. If she didn't make it out, he would catch her and play with his knives. For what seemed like hours, she said he'd humiliated her, beaten her, raped her, until on a whim, he let her free only to release his dogs. His... 'girls'. She ran like mad, naked and desperate, until, by chance, she hit the clattering door of an air duct and crawled into it, bypassing gnats and spiders and other crawling creatures.

  
*

Catherine was in a certain state of devastation. It only added to the lines of stress on her face. She was closed off and felt it even more than Sansa.   
They moved Theon to an asylum as he started feeling better. His sister came every other day. Jon only got her phone calls. He avoided Theon. He just couldn't. What would he say, that none of them was safe? That he wished he could do something about it but couldn't?  
*  
Robb says he said my name; that he called for me while on the hospital bed. I wish to believe that was true, that it was real. However, I am sure Theon shouted after a figment of his imagination. We haven’t belonged to each other in a long, long time.

Theon never belonged to me but he’s been possessed by a fiend who called himself his lover. He was his jailer and his tormentor, instead. I cannot even take solace in the memory of Theon.

I know what to do.

 I am only a man. I can't fight against the world but I can finish this monster off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hiatus almost killed me but here it is! Warning: switching back to the 3rd person! YAY! (finally, because Jon became almost too moppy and depressing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another hospital visit. What are you doing, Jon? Damn!

Nurse Lily from the hospital was missing. Jon only found out two weeks after he decided to pay Theon another faceless visit. For months, he kept haunting the grounds of what he thought was Ramsay's territory. He looked haggard in the reflection in the mirror, dark eyes like pools of long-trapped suffering, lines etched deep into the skin around his mouth, from what could be smiling too much or the exact opposite of it.

Theon looks even worse. He's been sent to another ward after a relapse to his previous, worsened state. No one really knows what is happening. Not even Theon. Or especially Theon. There is murmur all around him as he walks those sterile hallways and he swallows hard at his nervousness, despite feeling unbearable thirst all of a sudden. He wills himself to be strong. Again. There's one question plaguing him still: how long? How long until he finally cracks? Someone would probably love to witness that. Someone mean. Someone brutal and completely dehumanized to call himself a psychopath and think it a nice streak. Ramsay, the elusive enemy of his waking nightmares through the desolate alleys and parks near Bolton's estate.

Jon opens the door and sees him there, all in white against pale green walls, looking lost into the distance. He cannot even muster a friendly gesture and places the bag of packaged foods and inoffensive whatnots. All his previous expansion disappeared, like a cowardly child faced with a hard task. This messy situation seems even more surreal as another part of him is constantly focused on revenge and there's frustration, as he cannot tell for sure whether it is for himself or for someone else.

Theon jumps at his own thoughts, mutters something devoid of meaning and then glances suddenly at him. A strangled 'hello' makes it past his lips. It's like he's swallowing words instead of pouring them out. Talking hurts. Theon is in no state for a conversation, anyway, although Jon notices the same intense thoughts wiggling in the apparent stillness of his stormy eyes. Theon is remembering something, perhaps reliving it.

Jon cannot really tell. He tries not to make too much noise and places the things he brought on a nightstand. Theon's flowers, whatever they were, are now gone and only scattered blue and yellow petals remained, curled dry in inconspicuous places. Perhaps Catelyn's doing, perhaps Sansa's, if she's in the state to do such a thing. Jon simply regrets not bringing anything new and colourful to alter the dull state of the room, even though he knows Theon doesn't really notice his surroundings. He has time, he realizes, after peeking at the round clock on the wall. At least it's a silent thing, leaving the room suffused only in the violet-orange of sunset and Theon's post-traumatic twitching and the soft ruffling of the hospital sheets. 

He takes a seat at the small dining table. Even the cloth that covers it is made with the same intent of calm pastel. Mint, cream, pale pink and faded salmon, all gathered in a checkered sprawl to cover the white metal surface of the table. Looney bin. He casts furtive glances towards Theon who now whispers something like a nursery rhyme. 

"I don't even know why I'm here," he finally spills it out. Out of a sense of duty, perhaps? No, not quite. Not today, at least. Prowling at night in strange neighbourhoods doesn't seem like a duty anyway. What he does here is purely selfish, an indulgence. Looking entranced at Theon's dark hair as it has grown past the bone-bleached curls that someone other than a lover, someone with malign intent put on him. At least that familiar colour, like the wet bark of trees in their childhood forest is proof of a living, breathing being in the room. "I mean, I want to talk to you but I don't know whether I should or whether you want me to." Jon looks forlorn at Theon who looks out of the window. The sunset grows into a huge, slow motion explosion of auburn.

He takes the bag and extracts the little nothings from it. A slice of pecan pie, still warm from the oven, a small casserole of fruit salad, cereal bars, chocolate, a small kit for trimming. Theon reacts, slowly attracted by the noise the plastic bag makes as Jon keeps taking stuff out and displaying it in order on the table. It now looks like an exotic and vivid exhibit at a museum. Theon's curiosity is peaked. His eyes become huge, like the expanse of clouded skies over the sea. Overcast grey. Watery, committed to emotion, or at least reflective of it.

"Jon!" He greets all of a sudden. It's a sound, more like a screech and bears resemblance to his old self. Jon remembers that call. "You came to see me!"

Of course, with the indulgence taking over, Jon smiles and takes the careful steps of making himself and Theon comfortable. He takes off his heavy leather jacket and tries to smile and look like he means it. Theon must not find out about it, his frightened heart and his feverish dreams of retaliation to all the injustice that happened to him and to those he cared about. He tunes into the Jon from before, seemingly carefree and dour and pouty and secretly very, very naughty and spirited. Theon's chin in his hands feels scratchy and pale. As the rest of him, missing sunlight and fresh air. His fingers roam through Theon's curls and he doesn't shy away, doesn't push him to a distance. Jon feels encouraged.

"Had enough of that bed?" he says, and Theon jumps from his cocoon of sheets and Jon can revel in the crisscrossing scars on his lower thighs and the mutilated, although now healed toes. Not really missing, just very, very traumatised flesh. Theon asks for help to rise without words and Jon takes his hands, pulls him up. yes, anything is better than this living death, he muses, noticing how grey eyes try to focus on his face instead of on the wall opposite them. 

-

They are in the small bathroom and Jon has moved the framed mirror to an acceptable position so Theon can see his head full of curls as they are being brushed one by one. His hair is actually quite long, longer than Jon last saw it on him. It suits him, in a way that is alien and unsettling. They agree on a length but Theon seems fascinated all of a sudden with the dark, natural hair outgrowing the bleach burnt strands and Jon starts cutting those off. Theon's eyes look curiously into his own through the reflection of the mirror. It's almost as if he cannot imagine how this sudden change of appearance happened.  Jon is quite proud of himself and lets him pet his own head as if it's an ermine coat.

"Feels nice," Theon says by way of thank you. It strikes Jon that he sounds so normal and relaxed. Almost impossibly so. He behaved like his own self again.

"That's good to know," he smiles and this time it's genuine.

Next, comes the pale, blond stubble that never quite matched Theon's dark locks. Jon erases it off Theon's skin. It's still soft and easy to break - thankfully unmarred and his anger grows as he realizes that. Ramsay must have liked him pretty and never marred his face, never with a knife or a boot, but he can tell by the sensitivity that Theon shows, that he's felt punches break that skin several times. The monster liked Theon pretty. Not handsome. Pretty, like a thing, like a puppet. 

Jon exhales in a troubled manner, trying to expel that darkness. Why does he feel so possessive of Theon still? It's not as if they once belonged to each other if their not-so-secretive lovemaking could be called belonging. Not really. It was more like getting even and enjoying it. he shuts his eyes and tries to forget.

"Nails?" Theon bites his lip as he worriedly looks far ahead, into the other room. Jon extracts the clippers and a file. "Come on, we don't want claws on you, now, do we?" Theon smirks but hides his hands.

 _Fuck_. Jon doesn't say it out loud but this is going to be hard. Theon looking at him like a disobedient child when instead of that he's a maimed man. He doesn't like to show that, though and covers it with mischief, now showing him a pair of teeth as white as the walls. At least they took care of that, Jon thinks and smiles at him with what he could call loving affection. He feels weepy and nostalgic and hurt and betrayed all at once. He missed Theon and instead of talking himself out of it in time, he lounges forth and kisses him. That's right, looney bin Theon is still his Theon, somewhere, between those convoluted changes and those white scars.

He shoves thoughts of killing Ramsay far into the distant abyss of his mind and revels in the familiar sensation as Theon allows his mouth to be devoured like he would a honeycomb. Jon moans and thoughts fire rapidly in his head as he realizes this must be wrong. Theon is not really himself, he didn't ask for this. Not really, not so pliantly, not without bite. He doesn't really stop, not when Ramsay took too much already.

There's a wheezing sound accompanying the sloppy sound of his lips mouthing at Theon. That's Theon's breathing and Jon stops, horrified. He's not Ramsay.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this mess, leave kudos and a comment to let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon sees Ramsay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanted to make up for the prolonged absence of any update for so long!

It's unusual to look at him now after I've done that. The strange part is that he doesn't seem to mind. When he has a right to. I want him to be mad at me. It's as if it never happened. But it's been a long time since I've been close to him like that. Not for him, though. perhaps he wants to put behind him and his tormentor, Ramsay - yes, I know his name - as much space as possible. So it's a miracle that he didn't flip out and had a relapse just then, that he didn't cry his lungs out and shouted for Barry, his nurse. They would do nothing but restrain him and force some tranquilisers down his throat. No sweet talk.

Theon's now dozing off on the bed, his cropped hair making him look younger, like a teenager. It scares me. He didn't really want to eat but demanded that I sit with him until the lights out, making a fuss over the short visiting hours. I watch him as he mumbles in his sleep and I make mental notes of bringing him flowers next time. Anything to enliven this place.

It's already dark when I leave, and I have to walk back through the burning fluorescent light of the corridors. The warden greets me with a nod. A nurse has just finished calming down an insomniac patient several doors to the exit. I feel sleepy too and I reply in my head how he felt. Normal. Like himself. Then why does he have to be in here? Why can't I take him away from here? Get him out? Ask his sister for help, perhaps. She won't stand to see him like this, not when he can make progress away from here.

I hurry to the exit and I take my ID from the officer on the way out. He exhales a tired 'see you again' and I smile. It's dark already and the lamps from the park have already lighted up like fireflies. I walk briskly to my car and just as I want to turn left, I hear a pitched, whiny voice calling after someone. "Ramsay." It is Ramsay but it sounds like a prolonged "zee" that dissolves into the dark night itself. I come closer without any noise and I listen in. And then I see them. They're tall, both wearing biker leather, and they're talking to a security guard who's asked them for a light. Ramsay's just as I imagined. Too tall, too big, towering, strong like a hulking beast, short white neck. Pale face, pale eyes that seem to gleam like opals in the dark. He has this disgusted grimace permanently etched into his face, his mouth twists like worms and those lips, too pale, too rubbery, resemble those of a corpse. The woman he's with is tall and athletic, her leather suit clinging enticingly to her body. But she's also menacing, whipping her ashen chestnut ponytail to the side. She's dressed like she's ready for a witch hunt, and she hits with her booted leg the metal of the fence. 

On the other side, Ramsay's demeanour is deceptively calm but I sense something dangerous lurking behind those icy orbs of his. He looks pale and humid like a huge gaping fish but his teeth are the sharpest I've ever seen. The girl asks the security something and apparently it makes the man uncomfortable, only for Ramsay to chide her with a nasal "Myranda." Her laughter is crystalline, unlike anything I expected from her. And then again, what did I expect? A seething growl, a mad cackle?

Their bike is parked near by and Ramsay looks bored as he paces the pavement, seemingly waiting for the security guard to finish his cigarette. It gives Jon enough to think of. Why is he here anyway? The security guard finally puffs the last of his cigarette, throws it on the ground and extinguishes it with a swift trample of his foot. "Don't leave it there," Ramsay orders him in an icy voice. The man, as tall as he is, maybe taller, must have looked perplexed at him but Ramsay is a menacing and compact beast dressed in distressed black leather, Ramsay wears chains and most probably he carries a knife. He's like a mountain of fleshy hatred, pasty and sickening. Drowned face. The man must have given him a look because Ramsay chortles but his menacing allure only intensifies. "I said. Pick. It. Up. Trash."

"What?" The man is plainly confused. Myranda giggles and it freezes my blood. I'm not going to sit here and watch this mess unfold. I am sure this has something to do with Theon. or partially with him, unless why would they be here? Why else would this scoundrel be here? I turn around and make my way on the brick path, illuminated by soft yellow light. I am almost as tall as him, I am good in combat, I am prepared and I am filled with anger and hatred hate like no one else right now. I too am seething inside. This is too convenient. This shows he doesn't give a damn if he's linked to Theon or the missing nurse. I know it's him. Anyone hearing Theon's mumbling could have discerned that. Ramsay this and Ramsay that. And there is only one Ramsay that Theon knows. His boss, his boyfriend, his abuser, Bolton's son.

I emerge from the bushy pathway and I walk straight to them. My car's in the opposite direction but this asks for my presence. "Calm down, man," the security guard grumbles defensively but I already feel the fear permeating the air. Myranda seems to love this edge to the situation. She revels in it sadistically. "Come on, Ramsay, I'm bored!" Her high pitched, nasal tone makes his name come out as "Ram-zee"  and it hurts my ears at how ugly it sounds. His voice is rich and almost too confident for my liking as I approach.

"Anything wrong, officer?" I ask to make my presence known. I saw the man before. He's tall but a bit stupid. Too much brawn and not enough brain but you don't have to be too smart to understand that something's wrong around Ramsay. At least on an intuitive level. I don't like his presence. Theon wouldn't have muttered his name over and over during his hospitalisation and I still wouldn't have liked Ramsay any better. He's just awful in his own way. Terrible and sadistic. You can see it on his face, you can read the coldness in his eyes. He enjoys making others writhe in pain. His hands curl into fists and I wonder whether this is how he reacted to Theon wanting to leave him. Put those big hands of his to malignant use. Ramsay looks at me as if I was expected somehow. The officer turns on his station and arranges the baton at his waist. "Patrolling," he mutters and leaves Ramsay and the girl, Myranda for the park again. "No stationing allowed," he says in a subdued tone as if to remind his potential aggressors that he's still in charge. I am slowing down and looking at him, keeping an eye on Ramsay and the woman as well. The guard talks through his station now and reports them. Ramsay smiles as if to say that the man's a coward. Myranda gives a bored, prolonged grunt. She sounds dissatisfied as if her favourite toy has been taken away. I can imagine what kind of fun she envisioned with the security guard. A bloody one, most likely. 

"No lingering, remember?" Ramsay breaks the spell with his cold acid voice. He is talking to me. 

"Sure," I say. I am guarded but I keep my cool. I am not afraid. In fact, I'd like to crush his skull, very much, if offered the chance.  

"Not much to do around here," he continues, interrupting me. In fact, all he does is listen to his own voice. Self-involved, narcissistic bastard! "Full of loonies anyway." He smirks at me and his mouth hangs open as if waiting for something to come so he can bite. Myranda mounts the bike behind him and she's much like a bitch to her favourite human. She almost barks in pleasure as he strokes her flank possessively. It disgusts me. 

"Then why are you here?" I know I am pushing the envelope but this is what Ramsay wants. The question is... is Ramsay ready to deal with the consequences? I have a gun in my car. I have a mean punch and a special kind of hate reserved just for this man. 

"Wanted to see the loonies," he laughs then ignites the motor and leaves in a coil of dust and smoke. My eyes blur with stinging tears. I cough. All I know is that Theon's not safe.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short and so Jon it makes me sad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> endure more brooding-Jon, next time is bound to be some action, though.

Spring comes and goes. By the end of May, it leaves no trace because everything's already burning up. My time is spent researching the Targaryens and the origins of the Starks. I realize now that I don't belong anywhere. I am the bastard and that's okay because I made my own way in life.  
Theon's much better but he keeps having strange moments that require restraining and a tranquillizer. He's then very quiet, like a child that's been given a very bad beating but has no resentment towards it.

Dany's not necessarily interested in what she can do for me but in what I can do for her. She regards me with the same fascination as Catelyn does sometimes, when I visit Sansa or when I take Arya for her fencing lessons or when I help Rickon with his calculus exercises or when I drive Bran around. Spending hours in a pub with her minions/friends doesn't make me forget the path I took to get here. I can't accept it already. Why can't I accept it? That she's nice? That everyone in her entourage is set on making things better in this whole world? I'm doubtful but I want to be a part of it. I want to give meaning to my existence. I want to be myself, Jon, not the lost Targaryen son or the bastard of a Stark.

I did have a father and so did Theon. We're practically brothers except for the misunderstandings that tore us apart. And we're brothers to Rob in a way that blood cannot make it certain. We're here, together still, in this life, struggling to make sense of it. Everything's so new.

Ghost whines next to me. It's too hot for that thick fur of his but the idea of a haircut sounds appalling. Ghost is not a pageant dog. He's part wolf and he's an albino. These are enough to scare some people away. And I am in no mood to reinforce the asocial, brooding image that I must have perpetuated through countless disappointments.

I am convinced, as I see Theon regularly now, that Theon is never going to be the same. Not to himself, at least. Then why do I insist on deluding myself with these desires and wishes for things to go back to how they used to be years ago? Am I that weak? I thought I ditched my sad sack phase when I met Ygritte and she spat in my face that I had no idea how the world around me worked. She was right, then, Ygritte. So why can't I accept this as I accepted that? Is it that fundamentally different?

Maybe it is. Maybe Sam's right. I should fill a diary with these thoughts, get this straight on paper. But I can't write it. I can't imagine writing about me and Theon, because then I'd have to confront the reality. And the reality is not on our side this time. The idea of "us" or even a fraction of what our relationship should be is forever damaged by Ramsay.

-

We drive in slow circles around the hospice where Theon is committed. I grimace at the word but that's how the staff likes to call it. One would say he is confined there and it does him more harm than good, but in truth, Theon's quite unpredictable and routine and meds seem to help him recover his wits slowly but surely and it gives Robb enough assurance to stop freaking out with guilt over his past mistakes regarding Theon and me. Sansa is part of a witness protection program and we're talking about the horrendous situation in metaphors. Robb's too afraid to bring it back up. I can't even talk about Theon because the next second I'll realize that Robb was involved in this as well and that now he lives with the consequences of a night one stand turned marriage.

After I tell him to drop me by the Park so I could visit Theon, I realize I hate families. I hate their fake little smiles. I want no part of it. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gee, thanks for reading, folks!


	8. Chapter 8

It's the beginning of December and when he finally parks his car in front of the asylum, Jon gets a hell of a sense of finality. He bought bright yellow mums in a pot and little knick-knacks as per usual. This time it was Sansa's idea to knit something nice for Theon and Catelyn simply finished her little project by completing it with mittens and a hat.

He's been in an unpredictably sad mid all week and he tries to cheer up just for Theon's sake. Rob and Jeyne visited him last week and then they left to Braavos with Arya and the rest of their brothers. In Braavos, the weather is always nice. Jon almost wishes he joined them on their vacation.He's sick of the cold, of being trapped here, in the dreary North. He puts on his wool coat but he shivers nonetheless. He's all dressed in black and he's as pale as a drowned man. His hands are white with cold and in his beard, he can see tiny wisps of frost.

Just as he enters the building, he sneezes. Loudly. Arbert, a nurse, grins at him widely. 

"Watch it, soon you'll catch the flu!"

He grins in acknowledgment. The kind attention is simply heartwarming, it's like family.

The rest of the doctors and the nurses on the shift welcome him. He is, perhaps, the most well-known visitor of the Northern Asylum. Nurse Lily even brings him a mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows and pulls him to her motherly bosom. "So glad to see you, Jon!" 

Arbert's eyes slip down to Jon's lips. Jon knows but he keeps quiet about it. It feels nice, yet it's inappropriate. Leyna, a therapist pats him on the back and helps him out of the coat because it's so warm in here, they're all practically dressed like it's still summer. 

"Come on, he's been waiting for you all day," she whispers.  
And Jon just smiles, less awkwardly now, because they are like family. This is his family.

Theon lies in bed with a magazine and his eyes focus on him after a while. Scissors and glue lie to the side and in his lap, Jon can see his newest creation. Collage making has been a good escape for Theon. WHo knew he was so artistic in the end?

Eye contact may not be difficult but it is something that really drains Theon. He stares instead at the perfectly aligned blue trees cut out of the clouds in the magazine. Theon likes surrealism the best, apparently.

Jon wishes he wouldn't try so hard but then again, he wants him present and alive and progress is the only way that can get Theon a goodbye ticket from the Asylum. But that's a nice dream.

He appraises Theon again and under scrutiny, Theon reacts. He smirks and his mouth is full of teeth now. He wears prosthetics for fingers and his hair is dark, curly and parted neatly to the side. It still retains that careless attitude Theon's well known for and Jon has to blink his confusion out. In a grey merino sweater and gym trousers, he seems to have been sleeping like that through the morning.

It is very confusing. Jon frowns just to adjust himself to the ever-changing Theon. It's hard to keep up. Two months ago, Theon was doing watercolor and then building towns out of paper-mache. Manic periods followed by complete absences. And to Jon's utter horror, it was the absent, faraway look he loved most about Theon. It made him want to make love to him like he used to, many years ago.  

The thought both arouses him and fills him with horror.

He erases it, most of the time but then Theon comes back and it starts all over again.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late, I know.

It's mid of July and Danny receives a notebook. It has Jon's handwriting. She just reads and her face changes from curious to worried.

 

The beginning of January. Jon finds himself walking on the snowy path that leads to Danny's huge house. She sure likes living in hard to find places. Snow's covering his knees. is she even here?

Jon doesn't really care, as long as he'll get into the house. As soon as he gets there, he soaks heat like a black stone left too long in the sun. he doesn't really care that he let himself in. Someone is certainly waiting for him. 

Still, the beginning of January. Jon thinks that things have taken a weird turn. He isn't sure these days what his life is about anymore. Whenever he visits Theon, he finds things amiss. Theon's disoriented. Most of the time he sleeps but that's because they feed him sedatives through a syringe every seven hours. Seven, like the gods they so like to worships. Death is his favorite.

Taunts. Most of them are taunts. That's how he thinks about the little things he started finding lying about in Theon's suite. A lame wooden dog on the window sill, a bent spoon, glass beads. Then a  small round mirror and what really tipped him off, a razor blade right under his pillow. Dried blood and all to make it rusty, disgusting and traumatizing to dispose of in the plastic box he keeps for such things.

But the message is clear and Jon expunges his paranoia tenfold when he sees it. He wasn't blind, just hopeful. And Theon was too drugged out of his mind to have seen anything. Or experience anything. No scratch on his body. Skin perfectly healthy. No scratches, no cuts, no injuries.

Only peroxide on his dark hair, leaving streaks of snow pale hair. Or rather a burnt yellow straw hue. Close enough to the one he cut off some time ago, because a psychopathic narcissist had to enact his obsessive fantasies.

 

This never works out... or rarely works out for them.

Curious... Danny thought the same thing and turned the page just as Missandei entered the room. 

"Good news, I suppose?" Her face is a sea of tranquility in front of her friend and confidante. Almost confidante. There are so many things Danny has omitted ever since she met Jon. Too many. 

"You're correct in assuming that." Missandei smiles.

If only she knew the truth, Danny thinks. She'd be repelled. or fascinated. Or both. Just like she felt at first, when she heard it from Jon, as she helped him clean the blood from his jacket and hair.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
